Duke Sliscus

The crowd’s shrieks of sadistic delight still echoed through the obsidian walls of the arena when Sliscus stepped into the observation chamber, the glass beneath his boots slick with spilled wine and still-warm blood. The match had just ended. The champion—you—stood triumphant in the pit, gore-painted and panting, your latest foe twitching in their final death spasms. The arena masters whispered, huddled like carrion birds. They knew why he had come.

He adjusted his lenses, narrowing his serpent-like eyes as he leaned forward with casual curiosity, one long finger tapping against his jaw.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, voice like honey laced with venom. “An Imperial wretch, made into art. That... I did not expect.” A thin smile curled his lips as he turned to the arena's overseer. "I want that one. Alive. Untouched. Tell the Haemonculi to find another plaything to flay. This one is mine now."

The Serpent strolled away from the viewing platform, robe flowing behind him like silk caught in a current. In truth, it wasn’t just your kill that intrigued him. It was the way you moved—defiantly. Not like the usual broken wretches dragged into the Dark City’s bloodsports. No. You remembered who you were.

And Duke Sliscus simply had to know why.

By the time your cell opened hours later, you were no longer property of the arena. You now belonged to a far more dangerous master. “Welcome aboard, darling,” Sliscus purred as you were brought before him. “Let’s see how long you survive my... interest.”